texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' now that blogger has included the ability to reproduce fonts more accurately, alpha-numeric visual-poetry will be welcomed for consideration. formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to Volodymyr Bilyk at ex.ex.lit@gmail.com for consideration...

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

from THE TWELVE || Sheila E. Murphy

Samurai

[1] Tea in a mug shot, perfidy, “that beautiful gold,” a cast-iron nominative cast-off, tear-fed maybe, Sominex to sleep (and sleep), “safe and restful . . .”[2] Amassive wall flower, curvy petals, indrawn destinations, breath heater on the floor (plan), nest-like lawn and trembling.[3] She with nerve (gas in the kitchen) kitsch completes the window “wealth itself” anchors all of our colors on the cheap.[4] Scaffolding (“I used to operate”), no, I mean a forklift, life after forks, craft fairs galore, spilling into the streets, people to watch, people to document, people to for(get) . . .[5] He telephones the narcissist to ask how much should be contributed to the hope chest, and the narcissist answers, “Go ask God; I’m busy.”[6] Fatherhood inflicted on the masses ensures follow-through, as if a flicker of summation might nudge a collective noun into fruition brought in retrospect.[7] Naysayers christened in rose-colored light will occupy the glass jar for another century, while neutral beings watch, take notes, discourage youth from emulating this and that.[8] Rooibos rose enhances the room’s confluent light with vinegar and brown paper (“You don’t know Jack”) resulting in yield across stick figurines.[9] Cement helps dreams be dreamed “one continuous dark wood floor.”[10] “I wouldn’t go across the street to see her,” he reminded his sponsor; “I mean, she’s daft, not deft at all, and when I’m tired, the last thing that I need is “a cube that consists of Switzerland.”[11] Chaperone-prone parentage insists upon a steel wool manhood to be battled out of conscience, while the prayer fold grits its infant teeth.[12] If you want to know what anybody’s done, just ask the prompter in the front row, stumping for the enemy; as sharp as any form of competition, sliced like julienne.